Zander neighed frantically and shot forward. Milo tried to calm the levathon, but his limbs were no longer in his control. It was happening again. They flew off toward the reddening sky.
“That’s right, you three-legged mutt. Make it fast.”
The raspy voice sounded familiar to Milo.
Because it was his.
CHAPTER 16
C alista blended right in with the other thieves.
She let a guard in Jasparta arrest her for pickpocketing. They immediately cuffed her and brought her to an outpost, where they threw her into a wagon with several other women. A line of black levathons pulled the wagon across the night sky, the wind casting about the hair of the seated girls and women, drowning their sobs.
She tried not to make eye contact with any of them. The women hugged their knees, looking miserable. Dressed in grimy clothes and wearing collars, some looked even younger than Calista, which disturbed her when she considered what their unfortunate jobs would be in the coliseum.
She didn’t dare look over the side. Another woman had tried that already, bending over the edge to see where they were headed, or maybe to jump to her death, and a uniformed man sitting among them had yanked the woman back. He promised that for each woman who jumped, he would toss another one out with her. No one dared test his word.
The walls of the coliseum rose around them as the carriage made a rough landing in the arena. Calista took note of her surroundings. A looming tower stood at one end, the unfinished tip cutting a jagged shape against stars blurred by the Null Sphere. All around it, soldiers sparred with wooden swords, shot arrows into straw-filled targets, and met in groups to laugh and trade gossip.
“Come on, now,” one of the guards shouted, prodding them with a spear. “Get your tails off the wagon, double quick. Your new masters await.”
Calista followed the line of sulking women across the arena, stealing glances at the Berserkers pounding their way across the barren earth, their Feral counterparts swooping overhead in aerial shells. The Berserkers especially scared her, and they seemed to be everywhere she turned.
Something fell nearby, releasing a bang that made the slave women cower. A towering Berserker had dropped a load of steel beams onto the ground, nearly crushing a male slave who barely managed to skitter away. The Berserker, laughing at the Feral man’s cowardice, grabbed one of the steel beams and swung it at him. The slave easily maneuvered out of the way, but not for long. A second Berserker came up behind him and kicked him. He fell to the ground, where his first attacker crushed him with the beam. The two Berserkers laughed and pounded their fists together.
“Hey,” a woman next to Calista whispered.
She turned to see orange eyes on a pretty face, thick hair that fell in tangles around her shoulders. Calista ignored her. They would be beaten if anyone caught them talking.
“Hey,” she whispered again. “What’s your name?”
“Calista. Shh… Don’t talk.”
The girl smiled. “I’m Francine. You’re one of the prettier ones. We’ll be okay. They won’t make us do any labor.”
“That’s what you think,” Calista said.
“Hey, shaddap,” one of the guards shouted over their heads. “I hear another one of you talking and I’ll be chopping off a tail or two.”
Francine fell silent. They walked next to each other, Calista musing over the tools she had stashed all over her body—the transmitter tucked behind her collar, the vial of poison she had hidden in her tail. Earlier, while preparing for the mission in the slums outside Jasparta’s walls, she had cut a small slit into her tail and had slipped the vial inside. She had stitched it up in such a way that the wound could be reopened by pulling a single thread. Hopefully, no one would step on her tail and crush it, releasing the poison into her body.
A handful of guards led the women toward a broad opening, where Calista envisioned ancient warriors jogging out to face battles for the pleasure of their viewers. The smell inside the tunnel was a mixture of fungus and urine. Torches hung along the walls. At the end, the guards forced them down flights of stone steps to the mages’ quarters in the sublevels.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” one guard joked, corralling them into a cramped cell off one of the shadowy corridors. “You’ll stay here—quietly—until you’re summoned. Anyone tries to break out, and I’ll break them.”
The metal door slammed shut, leaving the women uncomfortably crowded in the tiny, cold space.
“How long do we have to stay in here?” Francine said.
“Be quiet,” Calista told her. She addressed the entire group in a low whisper. “Don’t cry. Save your energy. We’ll be out of this soon enough.”
A few nodded hopefully. Others gave her uncertain looks and took seats against the walls, huddling together for warmth. Calista read their expressions and picked out the women that seemed more likely to follow orders. There were maybe three that looked brave enough, not including Francine, who was visibly struggling to hold back tears.
Calista took up a lone position by the door. She stared through the bars and heard laughter nearby as the guards amused themselves with dirty jokes. The jokes were about the women they had just imprisoned, and the sort of things they would to do to them if given the chance.
“Just try it,” she whispered, clenching her teeth and thinking of what she could bite off these men if given the chance.
EVENTUALLY, a man’s voice shouted through the bars, ordering the women to rise. They all jumped to their feet. Calista leaped back from the door as it crashed open. Two guards with hoses stared back at them.
“We’re gonna get you girls cleaned up,” one of them shouted.
Jets of icy water pinned them to the walls. Shrieks erupted among them, inspiring more laughter from the guards. What happened next was even more humiliating. The guards tossed a few baskets into the room and watched, leering and grinning, as the women changed into clean tunics and scented themselves with handfuls of flower petals.
“They’re animals,” Francine said, dousing her armpits.
“It’ll get worse,” Calista said, doing the same.
On their way out, the head guard split them into groups of three and issued his subordinates to lead them to the mages’ quarters. Grouped together, Francine took Calista’s hand and gripped it. Calista responded with a firm grip, then immediately yanked her hand back. She needed people she could work with, not friends to share her pity. Here, friends would get her killed.
They entered a living chamber where one could look over the coliseum’s arena through actual glass windows. A warm fire crackled in a hearth. The floor was carpeted, the weave clearly the work of skilled Feral laborers. Black tapestries hung on the walls, showing ominous symbols associated with low magic and the men who practiced it. Golden goblets and silverware, still bearing traces of a meal recently consumed, decorated an ornate wooden table nearby. The lingering smell was of grilled meat and nectarwine.
“You girls stand still,” the guard said, leveling a short sword at them.
A wooden side door opened across the room, and a fleshy, bearded man dressed in a black robe entered, casting his beady eyes about as if upset at being disturbed. When his gaze fell on Calista and the other two women, his face brightened and he rubbed his palms together. Calista held on to the hope that this man was Xanthus.
“Well, well,” the low mage said. “Almost forgot a new shipment was coming in today. I’ve been under the staff these past few days and nearly forgot.”
He approached, wiggling his fingers in the air in excitement, like a fat, hungry man approaching a buffet table covered in delicacies.
“State your names loudly and clearly, please,” he said, “and don’t forget to curtsey. It’s the polite thing to do.”
Francine introduced herself with a stiff curtsey, and Calista did the same.
“Calista,” the low mage repeated, ignoring Francine. “Sounds fierce. I like it.”
“Kalnara,” the thi
rd slave woman said. She was in her mid-twenties and tall, with a willowy frame and dark circles under her eyes. She clearly hadn’t slept well in days. There was a brooding look about her that signaled defeat.
“I don’t like this one,” the low mage said, jabbing a finger at Kalnara. “Feed her to the tower with the others.”
A pang of terror shot through Calista. Was this how her mother and sister had died? Condemned by a man with not a care in the world except who got to share his bed? The terror turned to a cold, stiffening rage. She was going to enjoy watching this mage choke on her poison.
Kalnara looked to Calista in desperation. Calista took the girl’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
“None of that,” the guard said.
He grabbed Kalnara’s collar and yanked her toward the exit. Calista studied the man’s sword and the way he gripped it. He was prepared to lash out at them if needed. Calista would need a weapon of her own to take him down, unless she could somehow use stealth.
“Please, no,” Kalnara said, resisting the man’s pull. “I want my mother.”
The guard smacked Kalnara twice, knocking her to the ground, then dragged her limp body through the door. Two other guards waited outside. Francine sobbed into her hands.
“Don’t be afraid,” the low mage said. “I’ll protect you from the scary men. I don’t hit like they do. I’m much nicer.”
The door slammed shut, and two guards took up posts on either side of it, still inside the room. The low mage sighed at them.
“Not my choice to have them here,” he said, addressing Calista and Francine, “but the master insists. For my safety, of course.” Then he addressed the guards. “You two will be as silent as statues, I trust.”
The guards nodded tightly. Calista detected envy in those hard, grim expressions. Maybe, when she was done with the low mage, she could seduce these guards, lead them to a quick and quiet death without swords being involved at all.
“You have two hours, sir,” one of the guards said.
“Then they go back to the slave quarters,” said the other. “Master’s orders.”
The low mage sighed again. “Such is life.” He leered disgustingly at the girls. “Guess I can’t complain that much.”
He studied their arms and scalps for signs of sores and lice. Calista considered clawing his eyes out, but she knew the guards would pull their swords…
She had an idea.
“I’m not feeling well,” she said.
“Oh, that’s all right, sweetheart. I have some herbs in the bedroom that will do away with that feeling immediately. They’ll put you to sleep, but that wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Come now, both of you. Let me show you what Ayrtorian silk feels like.”
He offered a hand, and Calista wobbled as she took it. She groaned, letting her knees weaken.
“What’s wrong with this one?” the low mage said, frustrated.
With a lurch, Calista fell against him, hearing the sharp ring of steel behind her as the guards drew their swords. Instead of attacking the mage, however, Calista slid down to the carpet and rolled her eyes up in her head. She made her body convulse and let frothy spit dribble out of her mouth.
“Not again,” one of the guards said.
“Into the tower she goes,” said the other.
They went to grab Calista’s seizing body.
“A pity,” the low mage declared. “I trust you’ll bring another just as pretty, and extend my time with her, of course.”
As hands reached down to grab her, Calista jumped to her feet. She spun with her right leg extended, catching one of the guards in the jaw with her heel. She felt it break with a popping sound.
The man howled. Calista ducked as the other went to punch her. She relieved the first man of his sword, then stabbed them both in succession. They went down in a spray of blood.
“Guards,” the low mage cried, slipping his hand into a pocket on his robe and bringing out a glowing blood crystal. “Get in here.”
Calista pushed Francine to the carpet and turned to the mage. By then, a foggy, pink essence had begun to pour from the crystal. The mist stung her eyes and attacked the blade of her sword, dissolving the metal so quickly that Calista was surprised to find herself gripping a hilt and nothing more.
Good enough for now.
She lunged at the mage, banging him on the forehead with the hilt. He fell back against the table, knocking over the golden goblets and scattering the silverware. She kicked the blood crystal out of his hand and watched it roll under a cabinet.
“Please! Please don’t kill me!”
“Shut up,” Calista said.
She picked up a steak knife with the blade intact and held it to the man’s fleshy neck.
“Don’t make a sound,” she warned.
He nodded and kept silent, lips trembling. A light burned inside his shirt. Calista reached in and yanked out a thumb-sized blood ether crystal attached to a metal chain. She tore it off and flung it across the room, unsure if the man was powerless without it. She wished she had paid a little more attention during her classes on low magic back at the ranch.
“What do you want?” the low mage asked, his voice so high-pitched it made her wince.
“I said shut up.” Calista dug the knife tip against his windpipe. “You make another sound and I’ll cut the breath out of you. Tell me your name.”
“My what?”
“Your name. Are you Xanthus?”
The man shook his head frantically. “I’m Walthos. Walthos, son of Ergamor the Large.”
“I don’t give a dead rat’s tail about your father.”
Behind Calista, Francine let out a shuddering breath. Calista threw a glance over her shoulder and saw what the girl had done. She had picked up the blood crystal and was gazing vacantly at it.
“What are you doing?” Calista scolded her. “Put it down, now.”
A bright red form leaped out of the crystal, extended what looked like a pair of arms, and wrapped itself around the girl. Calista was stunned to hear the low mage’s laughter.
“It’ll come for you next,” he said.
He shoved Calista away and sprinted for the door. Calista swept her leg across his path and tripped him. As he tumbled, Calista picked up the sword dropped by the second guard and stabbed the low mage in the throat.
Francine fell to the carpet, wide-eyed and stiff as a corpse. The phantom flew across the room toward Calista. She scrambled to get out of its path, swiping the sword in an attempt to cut it down. The sword went right through its ectoplasmic body.
The low mage gagged out his dying breath, and the phantom disappeared. Had it survived a few seconds longer, Calista would have been toast.
She dropped the sword and ran to Francine. The girl lay stiffly on the carpet, her face frozen in a look of terror. The phantom’s touch had left a rash of burn marks across her arms and chin. It was too late to save her. She wasn’t breathing at all.
“I’m sorry,” Calista told her, and shut the dead girl’s eyes.
In the adjacent room, where the low mage kept a rather enormous bed, she found a letter on the dresser. He must have been reading it when the guards knocked on his door.
She read it twice, noted the words “…four of you will work in shifts…” and crumpled the page into a tight ball. Only four targets, then. She tossed the letter into the fireplace in the other room, then bent to inspect the low mage’s corpse.
The man had obviously never been trained for melee combat. He kept a dagger in a sheath strapped to his leg, where reaching it at a moment’s notice would have been impossible. Calista kept searching until she found a key that looked like a fit for the front door.
Cutting a slit into her tunic, she tucked the dagger inside, between her hip and her belt sash. A guard might notice the bulge, but from this point forward she planned to avoid all guards. If things went according to plan, no one would be aware of her presence until it was too late to stop her.
She remembered the tra
nsmitter, slipped it into her right ear, and tapped it.
“Artemis.”
“Cali, are you okay? I’ve been worried sick. Where are you?”
Relieved at hearing a familiar voice, Calista explained what had happened. She kept it short and left out unnecessary parts like what had happened to Francine.
“Got it,” Artemis said. “Here’s what to do. I’m looking at a map of the grounds. The pathways to the mages’ quarters all join in a single room. I’m guessing it’s a dining area. There’s a series of vents in the stone walls providing air circulation…”
Calista looked up at the corner and saw a metal grate over a square hole. Of course. How else could they breathe and keep fires going without a steady stream of air?
The vent, however, was too small for a human.
“My collar,” she said, fingering the metal band.
“Once the mages are dead, I can drop the unlocking mechanism into the coliseum.”
“On it,” Calista said.
She had thought about bringing one of the devices to unlock her collar, but in the end, it had been too bulky. She went back to the bedroom, dug through the low mage’s desk drawers, and pulled out a blank piece of parchment. Using the man’s fountain pen, Calista wrote a message in large, capital letters, in a script as elegant as she could make it.
DO NOT DISTURB UNTIL TOMORROW.
She hung it outside the mage’s door, then used his key to lock it shut.
CHAPTER 17
Barrel wasn’t used to all this exercise.
He tried to keep up with Kellan as they walked uphill through the darkening forest and toward mountain peaks that loomed in the distance.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Just up here,” Kellan said. “There are some plants you really need to see.”
He said ‘plants’ in the same sarcastic tone Barrel had thought he’d detected back at the library. It sounded as if Kellan was making fun of him. Like he thought all Barrel cared about were boring plants to use in his potions.
“We should turn back,” Barrel said. “It’s getting dark—”
Savant & Feral (Digital Boxed Set): Books 1 and 2 of the Epic Luminether Fantasy Series Page 90